


Looking on Tempests

by Madame (McKay)



Series: The Monkees Soap Opera [3]
Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 21:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10817391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKay/pseuds/Madame
Summary: Mike and Isabel's relationship is strained to the breaking point by her grandmother's attitude and their own communication problem.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 1998. Any song lyrics belong to Mike Nesmith and/or The Monkees. They aren't original to me.

  
Isabel didn't pause to knock on the front door before opening it and walking in--the guys had given her permission to barge in whenever she felt like it, and after some initial reluctance, she'd grown used to exercising the privilege. She glanced around quickly, but for once the house was quiet, and there wasn't the usual flutter of activity around the living room. She never knew what she was going to walk in on at any given time: Davy romancing a girl on the windowseat; Micky running around full-tilt, literally bouncing off the walls as he went into his werewolf imitation; Peter trying to quench a fire in the kitchen... 

But today, she only saw Mike lying on the couch asleep, one hand draped across his chest and the other dangling limply over the side, a book splayed on the floor as if it had fallen from his grasp; his three room-mates appeared to be gone, and he'd obviously taken advantage of the rare bit of privacy.

As much as he cared for his friends, Isabel knew Mike was basically a loner at heart, and he required more private time than any of the rest of them--something she could definitely relate to. That was the main reason she'd taken the run-down house next door; Babbitt didn't do anything to keep the place up, but the rent was cheap enough that she could make it without a room-mate. It wasn't long after she and Mike had started dating that she made him a duplicate key to her house and gave it to him one night while they were out alone together. 

"You could check on the place for me while I'm at work, maybe feed Rosencrantz and Guildenstern," she had told him, referring to the two stray cats who had adopted her not long after she'd moved in.

She'd held out the key to him, her eyes meeting his in a prolonged, level look; his expression had asked an unspoken question, but the implication of her offer had quickly sunk in: _If you need to get away for a while..._

"Thanks," he replied quietly, closing his long, slender fingers around hers and giving them a brief squeeze before taking the key. 

Since then, she had found evidence of his presence nearly every day; her plants were always watered, Rose and Gil were getting fatter, and occasionally, he even left little tokens where she could find them--a single lily, a copy of new song lyrics with the guitar chords penciled in for her, a poem--but only in the living room or kitchen. Never her bedroom. He'd been almost puritanical in that aspect, never infringing on her privacy there even when she was at home--symbolic, she thought, of other areas of their relationship. He'd been almost puritanical-- _almost_ \--about intimacy between them as well, and considering her inexperience, Isabel was grateful. He seemed content to let her set the pace, which in the first few months could have been out-raced by a snail, but his willingness to accept only what she was prepared to give and not push for more made Isabel feel that he respected her, and that made her feel all the more comfortable with him--and all the more eager to broaden her horizons, so to speak.

Isabel watched him for a moment, wondering if he were truly asleep, just dozing, or playing possum; she felt her heart constrict in her chest as her gaze lingered on his face, which for once was smooth and open--tenderly vulnerable in repose. She rarely saw him like that in the waking world; too often, his face was drawn in tight lines of tension or shuttered completely, hiding what was really going on behind those sleepy dark eyes. Being a surrogate big brother was sometimes draining, especially for someone who took his responsibilities as seriously as he did.

She sneaked across the room to the couch, treading lightly toe-to-heel to muffle her steps; once there, she braced one hand on the back of the couch and the other on the edge, then she leaned over and brushed a light kiss on his forehead. She drew back, waiting for a response, but there wasn't one. Either he was really out of it, or he was doing a good job pretending to be.

She moved down then, dropping a kiss on the tip of his nose, pressing a lingering kiss on that deliciously pouty little mouth and then--in a bold move she wouldn't have made just a few weeks earlier--moving her lips just under his right ear and nibbling a little.

That did it.

When she withdrew that time, she saw that his eyes were still closed, but the tiny smile she knew so well curved his mouth, and she grinned, bumping him with her hip to get him to move. He shifted to lie on his side, tucking his left arm under his head to use as a pillow, and she sat down beside him.

"You could _lie_ down if you wanted," he suggested drowsily, still not opening his eyes. "There's room."

Isabel hesitated, but only for a moment; she stretched out with her back to him, and as much as she liked the contact, she remained tense, unable to relax completely. He draped his arm around her waist, wrapping one of his long legs over both of hers as he pulled her close. She felt the warmth of his body searing her, felt the laughter rumbling in his chest.

"I'm not gonna bite," he chuckled softly in her ear. "Not like _you_."

Heat rose in her cheeks, but she laughed too, and that was enough to disperse her lingering nervousness. She snuggled against him, sighing as she closed her eyes, enjoying the quiet moment.

"So what's goin' on? I thought you were workin' on a story," he asked after a while, and Isabel's eyes snapped open as the question abruptly reminded her of the reason she'd come over in the first place.

"Oh, I almost forgot," she murmured, lulled into drowsiness herself by that point. "I've got some news..." She felt herself growing tense again, but not because of him this time.

"Good or bad news?" he asked, a teasing note in his voice.

"Well, that remains to be seen." 

Her voice sounded strained even in her own ears, and Mike propped himself up on one arm just enough so that he could look down at her; she kept her face averted, staring straight out at the opposite wall. She wasn't sure how he was going to take her news, and even after she told him what was going on, she still had to deal with the situation itself.

"What d'you mean?" he asked, prompting her to continue.

Isabel took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"My grandmother is coming tomorrow," she said in a low tone.

There was dead silence behind her for a long moment, and she resisted the urge to roll over and check his expression.

"Uh-huh," he said at last. "And?"

"And she wants to meet you."

Another long silence, and then he finally spoke again.

"I'm just not seein' a problem here." 

"Well, it's kind of an inspection," she explained reluctantly. "I mentioned that I was dating someone, so she's coming to visit--"

"So she can check me out, huh?" he finished for her, and to her relief, she heard only amusement in his voice.

During the time they'd been together, Isabel had been careful not to make any assumptions about how he felt about her or where their relationship was going; she had never liked being smothered herself--her motto was "this tree doesn't need any ivy"--and she had sensed early on that Mike was pretty much the same way. She had even been reluctant to mention him to her grandmother because she knew this would happen, and she didn't want him to feel any undue pressure because of it. She knew he cared about her, of course, even though he'd never said the words, but that didn't mean she was going to jump to the conclusion that he was madly in love with her.

"Pretty much," Isabel admitted. "Look, I need to warn you--"

"She's not comin' with a shotgun, is she?"

She grimaced and punched him lightly in the ribs with her elbow. He probably wouldn't want to joke about it once she told him everything!

"No, of course not," she continued, a trace of irritation in her voice. "But Gram raised me after my parents died, you know, and not only is she over-protective, but she's got some pretty old-fashioned ideas."

"Oh, I get it--you're scared she won't like me," he said, raising himself even higher so he could peer over her shoulder and see her face. She twisted around and looked up at him, worry evident in her wide, brown eyes. 

"No, she probably won't," she told him candidly. "There's very few men good enough for her precious grand-daughter--"

"And a long-haired, out-of-work musician isn't high on the list."

Isabel nodded. "Exactly."

Mike watched her silently for a minute, his expression somber. When he spoke again, his voice was troubled.

"You don't--I mean, you're not--"

Her fingers flew to his lips, hushing the flow of words.

"It doesn't matter to _me_ ," she assured him, meaning every word of it. "But she can be kind of blunt, and I don't want her to make you mad. She thinks she's looking out for my best interests."

Relief suffused his features, and before Isabel realized what he was about to do, he bent his head and touched his lips to hers, coaxing her into a warm, deep kiss. For a moment, she was too surprised to respond--but only for a moment. She slipped the arm that wasn't trapped between them around his neck, urging him closer, an invitation he didn't refuse--

"What's this, the best two out of three?" Micky's loud remark startled them both--she felt Mike's body jump as much as hers--and she pulled away as far as he would let her go, blushing furiously at being caught in such an undignified position. She'd been so wrapped up in Mike--literally and figuratively--that she hadn't even heard the door open.

Mike, however, simply gave Micky a deadpan look and drawled, "Yeah, and it woulda been the best three outta five if _you_ hadn't barged in."

He took his time untangling himself from her as if they had nothing in the world to be ashamed of, which Isabel supposed they didn't. It wasn't like the other guys--especially Davy--hadn't done the same thing themselves at some point. It was simply that her innate sense of privacy and decorum made her loathe to advertise her feelings and passions. Especially the passions!

Isabel retreated to one end of the couch, tucking her legs up under her; neither she nor Mike particularly cared to indulge in public displays of affection, preferring to keep their feelings--and activities--private. Unless they were caught in the act--as Micky had just done--the others rarely saw them kissing or touching. 

"So," she began, trying to sound nonchalant. "What have _you_ been up to?"

"Not as much as you guys," Micky replied, his almond-shaped eyes alight with unrepentant glee.

Two pillows hit him in the face, one from each end of the couch.

  
  


"So how do I look?" Mike reached up and adjusted the knot of his tie, then smoothed it down the front of his white button-down shirt. 

Isabel gave him a quick once-over, noticing the tie, the black trousers--and she was awfully tempted to let him walk into the house in front of her just so she could enjoy the view--and the ever-present wool hat. She was inordinately pleased to note that he had decided to wear it even though her grandmother might look askance at it; his hat was, after all, something she associated with him--an integral part of the entire package. 

"Wonderful," she assured him, standing on her toes and giving him a quick peck on the cheek. "Gram's a crusty old bird, but she'll come around once she gets to know you." 

She hoped.

"Ready?" He lifted one dark eyebrow, his expression more solemn than usual. 

"As I'll ever be," she muttered grimly.

He held out his arm to her, and she stared up at him, taken aback by the unexpected gesture, then slipped her hand to rest in the crook of his elbow. The solid strength and warmth she felt there fortified her nerves, and she felt a little better about the interrogation to come. 

Her grandmother waited for them in the living room, sitting with ramrod-stiff posture in a wingback chair near Isabel's bay window, the skirt of her navy blue dress tucked modestly over her knees and her feet crossed at the ankle. She always managed to radiate a prim-and-proper Victorian air that made everyone around her sit up a little straighter and speak a little more formally. 

Behind her chair stood Magdalene Bennett, her live-in companion and nurse, a reserved young woman whom Isabel had almost felt sorry for given that she had to deal with Gram's querelous personality on a daily basis. But Magdalene was so quiet and coldly dignified that Isabel felt she was probably the only person in the world capable of handling the job with her sanity intact. As usual, she stood in the background, her face dispassionate.

Gram glanced up as soon as she heard them approach, her sharp eyes homing in on Mike as he reached up to remove his hat, taking in every detail and--no doubt--picking him apart piece by piece. Isabel gave a watery smile, hoping that Gram wasn't going to be overly critical of him, and especially not to his face! Despite his easy-going manner, he had a formidable temper when pushed, and Isabel had no desire to be in the middle of a clash between these two wrathful titans.

"Gram, Magdalene," she began the introductions, trying to keep her voice from wavering. "This is the young man I was telling you about, Mike Nesmith. Mike, this is my grandmother, Mrs. Margaret Evans and her companion, Magdalene Bennett."

"How d'you do, ma'am, Miss Bennett." Mike moved to stand in front of her chair and extended his hand; his charm control was turned all the way on high, and it was all Isabel could do not to giggle.

"Young man." Gram favored him with a brief handshake, her countenance giving away nothing about her thoughts. Magdalene nodded but didn't smile or speak.

Isabel gestured nervously for him to take a seat, and he did, perching in a chair next to Isabel's and opposite of Gram's and tucking his hat beside him. 

For what seemed to Isabel like an eternity, no one spoke. At last, Gram turned to Mike with a quelling stare.

"I understand you have been keeping company with my grand-daughter," she said, her tone chilly.

If Mike were bristling at her hauteur, he hid it well; instead, he returned level stare for level stare and nodded.

"Yes, ma'am, I have," he replied with no trace of apology in his voice, and Isabel inwardly cheered. She'd seen Gram reduce other less secure young men to squirming, sniveling wrecks with that one question, but Mike was no pushover, and Isabel had to suppress her mirth at the thought that Gram had finally met her match.

"And what exactly is it that you do, young man?" Gram continued, her voice showing no sign on an impending thaw.

"I'm a musician," he answered with the same even tone as before. "My room-mates and I have a band together."

"What is your income?"

For the first time, Mike balked. "That's kind of a personal question, Mrs. Evans--"

"How am I to judge whether you can support my grand-daughter in the means to which she is accustomed unless I know your income?" Gram persisted.

Mike shot a questioning look at Isabel, who rolled her eyes and dropped her head in her hand. She'd forgotten to warn him that Gram always assumed that if two people dated for more than a few months, they were headed to the altar. She'd made the mistake of admitting that she and Mike had been seeing each other for the better part of a year, and Gram was convinced that a wedding would be forthcoming in the near future. That was one of the main reasons she had insisted on visiting; Isabel guessed that she wanted to go ahead and try to scare Mike off before things got too serious between them.

"Gram," Isabel interrupted gently before Mike could respond. "We're not engaged. We haven't even _talked_ about marriage. We're just dating, that's all."

Her grandmother's firm mouth twitched downward--a clear sign of disapproval--but she let the question drop, moving on to the next barrage. "Where are you from, young man?" 

And with that, she proceeded to pry out information about his family, his background, his plans for the future, and he answered most of her questions, politely refusing to respond to only a few. 

At long last, Gram gave a curt nod and sat back a little in her chair, a sign that the interview was concluded.

"I am--pleased to meet you, young man," she said, an unmistakable dismissal.

Isabel rose to her feet, and Mike followed, trailing behind her as she showed him out.

"Sorry," she whispered as she opened the front door. "I know that was a pretty heavy scene."

Mike let out a low whistle and shook his head. "Man! You weren't kiddin' when you said it'd be the Spanish Inquisition all over again, were you?"

Isabel smiled ruefully. "'Fraid not."

"So how'd I do?" he asked, glancing back at the living room, but they were both well out of earshot and line-of-sight.

"Better than anyone else she's ever grilled," she told him. "Usually they're running for the door before she even makes it to the family background stuff."

"Isabel!" Her grandmother's strident voice rang down the hallway, an implied order heard by them both. "I should like some tea now!"

"You heard her," Isabel said wryly.

"The _dead_ heard her." 

"Gotta go--" she whispered, but he caught her arm before she could turn away.

He cupped her cheek in one hand and leaned down just enough that he could kiss her once--twice--three times--gentle, lingering kisses that lacked the undercurrent of desire that usually arced between them but which bespoke an even sweeter message of tenderness and support. With that he was gone--and Gram was calling for her again. Isabel dashed back into the living room, neglecting to shut the front door in her haste; her mind was too preoccupied with the memory of his kisses--and the hope that Gram wouldn't notice how flustered she was.

"Well!" Gram declared as soon as Isabel entered the living room again. "Mary Isabel Evans, I cannot believe you've taken up with that--that Neusmirth person!"

"Nesmith," she corrected quietly, resuming her seat once more. She glanced once at Magdalene, who actually cracked a tiny smile as they both no doubt noted with some amusement that her grandmother had already forgotten that she'd demanded tea--one of her more blatant attempts at manipulation. "And he's a perfectly nice young man, Gram. He's smart, talented--"

Her grandmother hushed her with an imperious wave. "I don't care! You're wasting yourself with that boy. He's probably nothing more than a third rate musician with just enough talent to delude himself into thinking he can succeed."

"Gram!" Isabel exclaimed, appalled at her harsh words. "That's not fair! You haven't even heard the guys play--"

"I don't have to! I know what kind of life you would have with him, Isabel, a long-haired rebel with no ambition, no job stability. You would live hand-to-mouth, have barely enough money to survive--"

"Gram, you're talking like I can't support myself," she countered, her irritation rising. "I _do_ have a job, remember?"

"Oh, yes, and you'll probably end up supporting _him_ as well!" Gram retorted, skewering her with a look. "But you're ruining your chances at work--all because of that boy! First you threw away your chance to marry Lindsay Wythe-Farthingill, and now you've turned down a promotion to--what was it?--special events reporter because you don't want all that traveling to take you away from _him_!"

"That's hardly the--" Isabel stopped mid-sentence when she noticed her grandmother's expression change from indignation to what on anyone else Isabel would have called embarrassment as she looked at something across the room. Even Magdalene appeared wide-eyed with chagrin.

She followed her grandmother's gaze, glancing over her shoulder--only to see Mike standing in the doorway, his face as empty and unreadable as a mask.

Isabel's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening with horror. How much had he overheard? _None_ of it was anything she would have wanted him to hear, but she had had no intention of ever mentioning the promotion she'd been offered to him or to anyone else. It was her business, her decision, and she'd made it without regrets.

"I forgot my hat," he said woodenly.

"Mike--" Isabel jumped to her feet, reaching out one hand to him, but he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, and she took it to mean they'd discuss the matter later. 

Without a word, he strode over to the chair he'd sat in, grabbed his hat and stalked away again, slamming the front door so hard behind him that Isabel jumped, startled by the wall-rattling force of it.

"Well, perhaps that's the last you'll see of _him_ ," Gram said with smug satisfaction. "And good riddance."

Isabel stood frozen in the middle of the room, her hands clenched into fists by her side as she stared down at her grandmother with more cold fury than she'd every felt before in her life.

"How _could_ you?" she rounded on Gram fiercely. "First you treat him little better than a servant--you couldn't even call him by name--and then you're glad because he heard you insulting him behind his back!"

"Isabel, child--it's for your own good--" For once, her grandmother didn't sound quite so sure of herself, and Isabel kept up the attack, anger lending her courage.

"No!" she almost shrieked. "If you really wanted what was best for me, you'd be _glad_ I'm with Mike Nesmith! Maybe he doesn't have as much money as Lindsay, but he treats me with a lot more respect than Lindsay ever did! He makes me feel safe and cherished and--and happy. And he's _not_ a third rate musician--he's got a lot of talent. He and his friends _will_ succeed, and I want to support him every step of the way because I believe in him and because I'm in love with him!"

The instant she said the words, she shut her jaw with a snap, amazed at what had just come out of her own mouth.

When had _that_ happened?

All these months, she had admitted to herself--but certainly not to him--only that she cared about him, that she was hung up him, which she saw as a different thing from being "in love" with someone, and she'd managed to convince herself that she hadn't fallen so completely for him. 

Apparently her subconscious wasn't willing to sustain the self-delusion any longer.

"I think," she continued in the same firm tone as another thought occurred to her, "that the main reason you're so upset is because you couldn't intimidate him like you did Lindsay and all the others. He stood up to you as an equal, and that was a threat to you--wasn't it?"

"Well!" Her grandmother rose to her feet and drew herself up to her full height. "I never thought I'd live to see the day when my own grand-daughter spoke to me in such a disrespectful manner! If this is how you feel, perhaps I should leave!"

"Perhaps you should," Isabel agreed quietly, and from the shocked expression on Gram's face, that wasn't the reaction she'd expected. But Isabel thought they both needed to time to cool off and think things over. Perhaps if Gram could be honest with herself, she would admit that she'd been wrong, but even if she couldn't Isabel wasn't going to change her mind about being with Mike. She realized now that the longer she knew him, the more she felt like she'd found the other half of her soul; she recognized so much in him that she saw in herself, and she doubted she'd ever find anyone as compatible to her personality as he was.

She had no idea if he felt the same way, and she wasn't prepared to risk rejection by telling him all that, but no, _she_ wouldn't change her mind.

Not now, not ever.

* * *

As soon as her grandmother had gone, Isabel dashed next door, bursting into the   
guys' pad with an uncharacteristic lack of decorum.

Mike was nowhere to be seen, but as soon as she flung the door open, Micky, Davy and Peter glanced up in unison from where they sat at the larger table playing cards. Without a word, they all simultaneously pointed out the bay window. She lifted a hand to acknowledge them, then backed out of the house again, sprinting towards the ocean as fast as she could, her feet sending up sprays of sand behind her once she hit the beach.

She held up a hand to her eyes to block the sun and scanned up and down the shoreline, but the only sign of life she saw were a group of children playing in the distance. She couldn't spot his tall, lanky form anywhere, and her stomach plummeted. What if he'd gone somewhere else?

Her shoulders slumped with dejection, Isabel turned, about to go back to the pad to see if she'd missed him somehow when she heard her name, thinned by the wind and crashing waves but audible nonetheless.

She whirled around—and there was Mike, sitting with his back against a large rock, partially obscured by a cluster of smaller rocks nearby. With a small sigh of relief, she hurried over to him, but once there, everything she'd wanted to say fled her mind; a thousand random thoughts rolled and tumbled in her brain, but her tongue couldn't translate any of them, so she ended up standing there staring down at him mutely. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and his hair was tousled by the sea breeze, but the rumpled look didn't make him appear any more approachable.

He returned her unwavering gaze for a moment, his expression closed; for once she couldn't read him, and that worried her. He hadn't shut her out like that since the very early days when he was trying to hide his feelings from both her and Peter. 

Finally, without so much as a smile or a word of greeting, he simply held out one hand to her; she slipped her fingers into his palm, hoping he wouldn't notice that they were trembling, and he pulled her closer, guiding her to sit between his knees. She complied, a knot of tension that had been growing inside her loosening a little as he put his arms around her shoulders from behind and silently invited her to lean back against his chest. At least she could safely assume that he wasn't upset with _her_.

"I don't know what else to say except I'm sorry." Her tongue had finally decided to reconnect to her brain, and now the words tumbled over themselves to get out. "I didn't realize she'd have such a strong reaction."

"I don't think you'll be gettin her approval any time soon," he said in a surprisingly mild tone.

Isabel laughed nervously. "No, probably not."

"Does it matter?" 

The question was delivered calmly and quietly, but even without being able to see his face, she knew that it was an important one. She drew in a deep breath to steady herself before answering.

"I'd be lying if I said no," she began. "Gram raised me from the time I was ten years old, and what she thinks means a great deal to me. Yes, I wish she could approve of you, but that may not ever happen, so I just have to accept it."

She paused, then added, "And just so you know, I'm not going to walk away from you because of what Gram says. What she thinks matters to me, but not _that_ much."

"What if she never comes around?"

That question alternately thrilled and depressed her. On the one hand, it implied that Mike was thinking about the future of their relationship and that it might be a lasting one. On the other, she didn't want to contemplate the idea that she might one day be forced to make a choice between Mike and her grandmother because of Gram's irrational dislike of him.

"I don't want to think about it," she replied firmly, shaking her head to dispel the unpleasant thought. "I can't believe she'd be so stubborn if she knew I was truly happy with you."

"Yeah, but—" He cut himself off abruptly, and Isabel twisted around enough so that she could give him a curious look.

"But what?" she pressed when he appeared to have no intention of continuing.

"Nothing." He shook his head, and his expression told her quite clearly that no amount of questioning on her part would do any good.

"I think she's so uptight because she likes to be in control," Isabel offered, trying to sound encouraging. "Every other boy I dated was scared to death of her. You weren't, and she didn't like that." She thought for a moment, then added, "Maybe once she has time to cool off, she'll respect you for not being intimidated by her."

"Yeah, and maybe pigs'll fly," he replied caustically. 

Isabel didn't know how to answer that, so she faced forward again and allowed herself to relax against him, hooking her arms around his bent legs. He leaned his cheek against the top of her head, and they sat for a while, not speaking, just watching the sea gulls and sand pipers dance among the waves as the warm afternoon sun slowly began to fade. Isabel stroked his knees in an idly comforting gesture, the fabric of his trousers rough against her palms, and she felt the rise of his chest against her back as he gave a prolonged sigh.

She wanted to say something that would somehow solve the problem, but there was nothing, really. It was one of those annoying situations which only time could take care off; no human element could have any significant effect. She was content to wait and see what happened once Gram had had some time to rethink her attitude; she felt certain her grandmother would eventually accept Mike as an important part of Isabel's life. Gram was stubborn, but not stupid, and Isabel felt confident that she wouldn't want to do anything that might permanently alienate her only grandchild.

"I reckon I better get back," he said at last. "We're supposed to rehearse later."

"Okay, sure. I've got some work I need to do, too." She wanted to finish that revised proposal and give it to Gregory, her editor, first thing in the morning...

She realized she would have to be the one to get up first since she was in his way, so she scrambled to her feet with as much grace as her short skirt would afford her. Once they had both stood and brushed the sand off their clothes, Mike slipped one arm around her shoulders and guided her back towards her own place.

It hadn't taken them long to reach the point that they could be together without feeling obligated to make conversation, but this time the silence between them felt different. There was a tension that she hadn't sensed from him before, and for the first time in months, the quiet felt awkward.

He still didn't say anything even after they reached her front door, and Isabel scrambled for something—anything—to say that might lighten the mood, but nothing came to mind.

Usually when he kissed her good-bye, it was little more than a quick, light peck—but not this time. He caught her around the waist and pulled her close, kissing her with an intensity that made her head fill with static and made her body want to drag him inside with her. She clung to him, breathless—then he pulled back just enough to give her a long, seaching look with those dark, dark eyes before leaning in once more. 

This time, his lips were soft and gentle as he tangled the fingers of one hand in her hair, the other caressing her waist and hip. But despite all his tender ministrations, panic rose like bile in Isabel's throat. Yes, there was affection, but there was more—this kiss tasted of regret, of sadness.

When he released her at last, she wanted to beg him not to leave, but she didn't. Pride stilled her tongue—pride and fear that he might refuse her.

Instead, she watched him leave, pressing a shaking hand to her mouth to keep from calling him back, hoping that what she'd felt had been wrong.

His kiss had tasted of good-bye.

  
  


If Isabel had ever had a more wretched day, she couldn't remember it. Gregory had demanded two complete rewrites on the same story before he would accept it, and negotiations on the idea she'd for a column were at a standstill. She was exhausted—her brain had fled screaming two hours ago and showed no signs of coming back any time soon.

She needed a diversion, and she needed to know what Mike's frame of mind was. There was only one place to go for the answer to both.

The faint strains of "Sometime in the Morning" wafted across the yard before she even reached their front door, and she quickened her pace. She loved watching them rehearse, and they'd given her permission to sit in anytime she liked.

Not wanting to distract them in the middle of the song, she opened the door slowly and carefully, then tiptoed in, hurrying across the room to curl up on the couch. She sat so that she could watch them, resting her arm on the back of the sofa and propping her chin on her arm. Peter was lost in the music as usual, so she didn't think he'd even noticed her arrival; Micky smiled when he saw her and gave her a wink, putting more emphasis than usual on the words, "she will be there" as he sang them. Davy grinned at her, then danced over to Mike, elbowing him to get his attention since he was looking down, concentrating on his fingerings. Mike glanced up, his expression registering curiosity, and when his gaze fell on her, he nodded but didn't stop playing.

So far, typical behavior, and Isabel relaxed a little. Perhaps she'd only imagined anything different the day before and her fears were ungrounded after all...

The song ended, and she applauded. Micky stood up and gave an exaggerated bow, nearly knocking over his snare drum in the process, and Peter blinked, obviously startled, but once he was aware of her presence, he smiled warmly and waved to her. 

"Are you okay? You look kinda tired," Mike remarked, his brows snapping together in a concerned frown.

"Long day," she answered with a weary wave. " _Please_ distract me."

"Not in front of _us_!" Micky exclaimed, earning identical glares from both Mike and Isabel. 

"With _music_ , Micky," she mock-growled, and he stuck his tongue out at her, which she answered with a playful smile.

She'd felt a bond of friendship with the madcap drummer ever since they'd met, but that bond had grown stronger as they got to know each other, and it had developed to a near-sibling attachment ever since his cousin's death. 

Isabel flashed back to the day Micky's aunt had called to tell him that his cousin had been killed in the war; he had let out an agonized wail unlike anything she'd ever heard from another living being before, dropped the phone receiver and ran upstairs, slamming the door to the bedroom he shared with Mike behind him. The rest of them remained frozen where they were, staring at each other with wide eyes, looking shell-shocked. Only Mike had the presence of mind to pick up the phone and talk to Micky's aunt. 

While the three young men gathered together, confering on what they should do—leave him alone? try to console him?—Isabel went upstairs by herself, opened the bedroom door, slipped inside and closed it behind her, leaning against it as she watched Micky for a long, silent moment. He was slumped on his knees by his bed, leaning against it as if it were the only thing between himself and total collapse.

She crossed the room and settled on the floor next to him, slipped her arms around him and guided him to rest his head in her lap, and he complied without resistance. He curled up in a ball, clutching her waist with one arm as he hid his face against her stomach and wept, his body shaking with the force of his sobs. Just as he did everything else, Micky grieved with his whole heart, and Isabel stroked his hair and rubbed his back soothingly as he gave vent to his emotions.

When his sobs subsided to mere hitches and his death-grip on her waist had loosened, Isabel began to speak quietly, telling him about her parents who had died in a car accident when she was ten and how painful it had been for her.

"Does it ever stop hurting?" he asked, his voice clogged and wet with tears.

"No," she told him honestly, not seeing any reason to sugar-coat it when he would learn the truth for himself. "But it does eventually get easier to live with."

Ever since then, she had thought of him as the brother she'd never had—probably because of the endless aggravation he heaped upon her.

"Well, what do you wanna hear, then?" Micky asked. 

"I don't care," she replied. "Whatever you guys want to do."

"'Sunny Girlfriend'?" he suggested with a mischievous grin.

"What about 'You Just May Be the One'?" Davy added, casting a side-long smirk at Mike.

Even Peter got in on the teasing, launching into a deliberately warbly version of "Sweet Young Thing."

"All right, that's enough!" Mike exclaimed, suddenly pulling his guitar over his head and setting it down carefully. Isabel got the feeling that if it hadn't been such a valuable instrument, he might have thrown it. 

"If you guys can't be serious about this, we better just call it a night," he added before stalking off in a huff.

The rest of them watched, wide-eyed, as he stormed out the door, then they traded mystified looks.

"What was _that_ about?" Davy asked no one in particular.

"You guys didn't have a fight or nothin', did you?" Micky turned to Isabel with concern and alarm in his eyes.

"No, _we_ didn't..." she replied slowly. "I guess he's still upset about what Gram said. That's the only explanation I can think of..."

"Well, I wish 'e wouldn't take it out on _us_ ," Davy grumbled. 

Isabel stared at the door, feeling that knot of worry nestled in the pit of her stomach growing exponentially. Mike wasn't the kind of person to be overly concerned with what others thought of him, and she'd assumed he would simply shrug off her grandmother's comments as unfortunate but ultimately irrelevant.

Unless...

Unless there was something else going on...

"Hey, don't worry about it, babe," Micky said quietly as he walked up behind the couch. "He'll be okay. He's just gotta work it out in his own way, y'know?"

He dropped his hands on her shoulders and gave them two quick squeezes before moving to his ultimate goal: the refrigerator. He opened the door, bent over and peered in, grimacing with distaste as he reached in and pulled out a bottle of soda.

" _Coke_?" He held up the bottle, making one of his "bleah!" faces. "Who bought this? Man, I _hate_ this stuff..."


	2. Chapter 2

Mike didn't explain his outburst that night or the next day--or at any other time during the week that followed. Instead, he seemed to withdraw from her a little bit every day, and Isabel's nerves spun out to the snapping point as she watched him slipping away. 

Half of her wanted to grab him and shake him and demand to know what kind of game he thought he was playing, but the other half held her in check. With the mood he was in, there was no telling what he might say if she tried to discuss the matter with him, and her pride wouldn't allow her to risk humbling herself so completely only to be rejected. Their relationship was still so new, so fragile, and both of them being reticent types who didn't reveal their feelings easily didn't help matters in the slightest when it came to bolstering her confidence level.

Instead, she tried to act as if everything were normal. He hadn't actually said he wanted to stop seeing her, and perhaps, she rationalized, he simply needed to brood for a while and get it out of his system. 

But brooding was _one_ thing, she thought as she watched the Frisbee game in progress. _Flirting_ was something else entirely!

She stood at the edge of the tide, the cold water lapping at her ankles, but she was too engrossed in the cozy little scene being played out in front of her to notice the rushing waves. She didn't consider herself the jealous type; she knew that other girls found Mike attractive and flirted with him--sometimes right in front of _her_ \--but as long as he didn't give her any reason to think he was dallying with one of them, it didn't bother her. She certainly noticed handsome men--she was in love, not blind--and she didn't expect him to put any blinders on either especially since neither of them had raised the issue of commitment. However, there had been an implied agreement between them that looking was fine, but touching was crossing the line.

At the moment, Mike was so far across the line, he probably couldn't even see it anymore.

Isabel's hands clenched into fists at her sides, and her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as she watched him "teaching" a certain well-endowed neighbor of theirs how to throw a Frisbee complete with hands-on demonstrations. Staci--with an "i"!--had mastered the art of back arching to show off her ample wares which wasn't going unnoticed by any of the young men within a mile radius, including Mike.

She glanced down at her own B cup bikini top and sighed. 

"Hey, Izzy--what's wrong?" Micky had surfed onto the shore not too far away and, abandoning his surfboard for the moment, had approached without her even noticing.

She glanced at him, smiling a little at the sight of his water-logged curls; salt water streamed down his face, and he kept tossing his head to flip wet tendrils out of his eyes. He'd stopped straightening his hair after his cousin's death in what she felt certain was either a conscious or subconscious tribute to him--she hadn't dared asked since it was still a touchy subject fo rhim that he never raised voluntarily--since Eddie had mentioned he hated Micky's straight hair.

" _That_ ," she said grimly, nodding toward Mike and Staci.

Micky glanced over at the twosome and then gave her an "uh-oh" look.

"Oh..." he said lamely. "That."

"Micky, what's going on with him?" Isabel turned to him, her eyes pleading for help in understanding the whole mess. 

"Man, I don't know," Micky replied, sounding a little exasperated himself. "Something's bringing him down, but he's not talking."

"He hasn't said anything to you guys?" she persisted, but to her dismay, he shook his head with a rueful smile.

"Nope. Not to _me_ anyway."

Staci's high-pitched giggle carried on the wind to Isabel and Micky, and Isabel ground her teeth in frustration.

"If this keeps up, you, Davy and Peter are gonna have to form a trio, because I'm gonna kill _him_."

"I don't get it," Micky said, a bewildered note in his voice. "I thought you two were really tight."

"Me, too," she replied quietly. "I guess we were both wrong."

She sat down in the wet sand facing the ocean, stretching her legs out in front of her and leaning back on her hands; Micky plopped down beside her, mimicking her posture. The incoming waves washed up against her legs, making them gritty with sand, but she didn't care. 

"Look," Micky began hesitantly. "I don't know what's going on, but I've _never_ seen him act like this." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in Mike's direction. "I mean, it's not like him at all, y'know?"

"I know," she agreed. "It's like he's trying to prove a point or something, but I don't know why. I haven't put any pressure on him, Mick."

She looked him directly in the eyes to emphasize her point. "I've just been waiting, hoping he'd tell me how he felt when he was ready. But either he's not ready or..." she paused, not wanting to voice her deepest fear. "Or he doesn't feel the same way that I do."

"You love him, huh?" he asked softly, his eyes full of sympathy.

"Yeah," she said simply. "I love him. But apparently it's not mutual, and he wants to make sure I know it."

She sat up and dug her hand into the cool, wet sand, feeling tiny crabs sliding around her fingers, scuttling away from her intrusion into their domain. 

"I can't believe that," Micky said vehemently. "I've seen you together. He may not talk about it a lot, but Mike's really hung up on you--"

"Then why is he pushing me away?" she countered, her brow furrowing in anger, but not at Micky. "If I'd been bugging him to commit to me, to get engaged or something, I could understand it, but I haven't! I haven't even _told_ him I love him!"

"And you haven't had a fight?"

"Not while I was in the room," she answered wryly. "The only problem we've had lately is my grandmother, but I honestly didn't think he'd freak out about it. I mean, it's not like he cares what other people think."

"Yeah..." Micky's voice grew distant as if he were lost in thought.

Isabel stared out at the horizon, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes and trying to blink them back before they could fall. She hated to cry, and she certainly didn't want to do it anywhere near Mike right now. But this sudden turn-around in his behavior was like a direct blow to her heart. He was leaving her, and she was already beginning to mourn the loss.

"Izzy--?"

Micky's voice was low and gentle--her undoing. His obvious compassion nudged her over the edge, and she averted her face so he couldn't see the wet tear-tracks on her cheeks.

"You're crying, aren'tcha? Aw, c'mon, Izzy--don't do that." 

Unable to stop the flood, Isabel buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with the force of her quiet sobs. Micky put his arms around her, scooting closer until she could lean on his shoulder; their positions were reversed now, and it was he who murmured words of comfort until she finally grew calmer.

"Micky."

He glanced up at the sound of his name to see Mike looming over them ominously, his fists on his hips.

"What's goin on here?" he demanded. 

Micky opened his mouth to say something, but Isabel beat him to it, glaring up at Mike with an expression of fury like he'd never seen on her face before.

"Go away," she demanded curtly. "I don't want to talk to you right now."

Her temper took longer to flare up than Mike's, but when it did, it was just as formidable, and she didn't want to unleash it in public. Besides, she might end up saying things she didn't mean--or worse, things that she _did_ mean--and that might only make matters worse between them. If that were possible.

"If you're upset, then we need--" he began.

"Not now," she cut him off, her tone brooked no argument. Mike fell silent, but his expression let her know he wasn't pleased about it.

 _Tough cheese_ , she thought balefully. He'd put her through an emotional wringer all week, and she wasn't inclined to be charitable towards him now. 

"Come by in an hour," she said, then deliberately shut him out, leaning on Micky's shoulder again and closing her eyes.

"Oo, that's gonna be a bad scene," Micky said a few seconds later when she assumed Mike had left them alone again, and she could feel him laughing.

"Because he's so mad?"

"No, because _you_ are," he replied. "This is one show-down I _don't_ wanna be anywhere near!"

  
  


An hour later, Isabel was pacing the floor of her living room, growing madder with every passing second. She had let out her sorrow, and now anger was coming to take its place. The stalemate had gone on long enough, and she wasn't about to let him leave without finding out exactly why he was acting so strange.

Mike had the same privilege at her house that she did at theirs, thus he didn't knock before coming in; her stomach tightened with nerves when she heard the door open, her hands suddenly growing ice-cold when she heard the tread of his boots on the floor.

A moment later, he stepped into the living room, pausing just inside the doorway, his mouth tight with anger, his dark eyes smoldering. His temper hadn't cooled any and hers had grown, a detached part of Isabel's mind noted with amusement. Perhaps she should have removed all the breakables.

"I don't think we oughta see each other anymore," he stated flatly, and she blinked, surprised by his blunt statement.

"Really." She crossed her arms across her chest and gave him a frosty glare. "Why?"

"We're too different." He dug into his pocket and pulled something out, turning it over and over in his fingers as he spoke. "You wouldn't be happy with me--not for long."

He took a few steps into the room and tossed the object he'd held onto her coffee table; it was the key she'd given him. Her throat closed at the sight of it, and for a moment, she was incapable of thinking, much less speaking. If he were returning the key--something she'd always considered a symbol of trust and empathy between them--then his decision was already made, and there was probably little chance of appealing it.

"How--" she began when her voice returned to her. "How do you know that?"

"Your grandmother was right," he replied. "We're two different people, and we want different things. I can't give you what you want--I can't give it to _any_ girl, and I don't know when I'll be able to."

"What is it you think I want?" she asked.

He gave her an exasperated look as if he couldn't believe she even had to ask, but she honestly didn't know what he could mean.

"I can't marry you--I can't marry anyone any time soon--and I'm not about to let my wife support _me_ ," he said fiercely. "I got my life tied up in the band, and I don't wanna give it up now--"

"Who said anything about _marriage_?" Isabel couldn't hold back the outburst, staring at him incredulously. "When did I ever ask you for an engagement ring? Never! I don't care what my grandmother said--I'm not ready to get married right now any more than you are! I've got plans of my own, thank you. I want to get my own column or maybe try to publish some fiction, I want to enjoy my career for a while before I even _think_ about getting married and starting a family!"

"Well, then why did you turn down that promotion so you wouldn't have to travel--?"

"And be away from you?" she finished for him in a sarcastic tone. "I didn't."

He frowned at her, looking puzzled, and she shook her head with a cynical laugh. 

"The promotion Gregory offered involved more work for no more pay than I'm already getting. He wanted me to be a roving special events reporter covering concerts and conducting interviews all over the country, and as much as I like to travel, that kind of hectic schedule would have worn me out fast. I can't work at such a pace. It's just not my bag."

She moved to the sofa and sat down heavily, feeling weary. 

"Instead, I've been trying to talk him into giving me my own weekly column covering little known bands in the smaller clubs to give them some much-needed exposure. We've been hashing out the details for weeks, and I've just about gotten him to agree to it. He knows I'm a good enough writer to handle it, and it would also mean I'd get a little raise."

"But--she said--"

"Gram jumped to the wrong conclusion--and so did _you_ ," she said, leveling an accusatory finger at him. 

"Well, why didn't you _tell_ me that?" he demanded, and it took all of Isabel's willpower not to scream.

"You didn't _ask_!" she exclaimed testily. "I wasn't going to tell you about the promotion at all because it was no one's business but my own! I also didn't want you getting the wrong idea about why I turned it down, which is just what you did anyway! Besides, I didn't even know that was part of the problem. I thought you were uptight about what Gram said about you."

Suddenly it was as if a door had slammed shut in his face; he went completely blank and unreadable, and cold fear clutched her insides at the forbidding sight. "Well, what she said is true," he said. "I don't know how long it's gonna take for us to make it, and you deserve better than what I can give you. I was just lookin out for you--"

"Looking out for--!" she sputtered, nearly incoherent with a sudden burst of wrath. "Don't you _dare_ try to fob this off as being for my own good! You've got no idea about what's good for me, or you wouldn't be doing this! You arrogant, selfish, egotistical _coward_!"

"What did you say--?" His face turned white as he gaped at her in obvious shock at her outburst.

"You heard me," she spat, jumping to her feet. She dashed over to stand in front of him, punctuating her points with a jab of her finger against his chest. "This isn't for _my_ sake! You aren't looking out for me--you're looking out for _yourself_! I bet you thought Gram would eventually talk me into believing all that nonsense about you not being good enough for me, and so you decided to spare your pride the blow of being rejected by beating me to the punch. Isn't that it?"

"Oh, you're a _fine_ one to be talkin about pride!" he countered. "All this time, you've been keepin a safe distance from me like you don't wanna let me get but so close. You never tell me how you feel, what you want from me. I got no clue if you even care about me at all! How was I supposed to know you wouldn't listen to your grandmother when I've never been able to figure out exactly how you felt about me in the first place--and you sure weren't about to _tell_ me! You didn't even want to tell me you were offered a promotion!"

"Like you were so open and honest!" she retorted, furious that he should try to put the blame on her. Her fists shook by her sides with unleashed anger, and she fought to keep the lid on her temper before she ended up either hitting him or throwing something. "When did you ever tell _me_ how you felt?"

"I tried and tried to _show_ you, but you just kept that big ol' wall up like you wanted to make sure you were safe from really carin about the dumb Texas hick." His voice was laced with bitterness as he glared down at her, the myriad emotions crossing his face revealing his own struggle not to erupt.

"I can't believe you!" she gasped. "I thought you knew me better than anyone else in the world, but you don't--not if you think I'm that shallow, that I would even care how much money you have or don't have, that I would think someone as creative and talented as you are is a hick. None of that mattered to me, but if you think it did, you don't know me as well as I thought you did--you don't know me at all."

Her breath caught in ragged gasps as she twisted the friendship ring he'd given her off her finger and slapped it on the coffeetable next to the key.

"You can take this and throw it in the ocean for all I care!" she declared passionately, tears welling in her eyes.

She thought she'd been hurt about as deeply as she could be that afternoon on the beach, but the pain she felt now was excruciating, threatening to devour her from within. Suddenly, she couldn't bear to look at him, to see the bewilderment warring with lingering anger in his eyes. Her illusions about him--about them together--had been shattered, and she needed to sort through the fragments and grieve for her loss.

With a sharp cry, she whirled and ran into her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. She didn't care if he stayed or left; she just wanted to be alone. She flung herself on the bed and stayed there, weeping, until long after the sun had set and the sky had turned to black.

* * *

She stood alone in a huge ballroom with marble floors and tall, narrow windows that let her see the stars glittering in the night sky from wherever she stood. Inside, a hundred candelabras were scattered around, all with white candles that cast a rosy glow all throughout the room. Her gown was like nothing she had ever owned before--a straight, strapless black sheath made of silk. It rustled softly when she walked, a whisper of fabric. She wore long black gloves, and her hair was smoothly, sleekly twisted into a chignon--she felt lovely, as if for this one moment, everything about herself and her surroundings was perfect. 

Then the music began, and she immediately recognized it--Micky was singing "Sometime in the Morning."

But it couldn't be Micky singing because suddenly he was standing in front of her dressed in black tie and tails, his wild mop of curls the only thing about him in disarray. He extended one white-gloved hand, giving her a lop-sided grin, and she was instantly charmed. She slipped her hand into his--black on white--and he led her to the center of the room. He took her in his arms and began guiding her in a perfect waltz-step, and she laughed, amazed at this new-found ability of his.

"Sometime in the morning, a simple thought will occur to you..."

As they spun around the room, she saw another black-clad figure standing nearby, and Micky steered her towards the new arrival, bringing them to a graceful halt in front of Davy. With that, Micky stepped out of the way; she reached out to call him back, but Davy claimed her hand, bringing it to his lips with one fluid motion. She stared at him, surprised, and he grinned impishly before sweeping her onto the floor once again.

"Sometime in the morning, you'll just reach out and she will be there..."

They were well-matched in height, and for once she didn't have to crane her neck to see a young man's face as she danced; he waltzed with her for a turn or two before abruptly switching to an elaborate tango, and to her amazement, she managed to keep up with him, following him through a series of intricate moves. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a third person advancing into view, and a moment later, Davy led her over to Peter, who was watching them both with an endearing smile, his dimples cutting deep grooves in his cheeks.

As Davy melted into the background, she stared up at Peter, a mixture of fondness and regret churning in her heart. He held out his hand, and she took it hesitantly, wondering if she had the right after what had happened between them. He looked down at her for a moment, his expression affectionate, and then he bent down just enough to kiss her lightly on the cheek.

With that, her concerns were dispelled, and she smiled broadly back at him. 

"You're where it is for me..."

Peter lead her out once more, falling into the waltz as smoothly as the others had done, and she let herself relax and feel the music as they glided across the marbled floor. He directed their path to the far end of the room, and when she glanced up, her breath caught in her throat, her eyes growing wide with surprise--and blatant admiration.

Mike stood near a window, silhouetted against the night sky until he stepped into the light of the flickering candles. He was dressed as his friends were in a black jacket complete with tails, white bowtie, white vest and white gloves--all complemented by his small, enigmatic smile.

Peter stopped in front of Mike, who stood observing them with his arms folded across his chest. Peter's smile turned into an outright grin as he bowed, then gestured to her with a flourish--a clear signal to Mike to take over.

She hid a smile behind her hand as he shook his head, then she began walking backwards, her gaze never leaving his as she crooked her finger and beckoned for him to join her.

He rolled his eyes heavenward, but he stepped forward at last and took her in his arms; she drew close to him, reveling in the feel of his firm grasp around her waist, anticipating the intimacy of the dance.

"And you will no longer wear a disguise..."

He began slowly, sticking to the simple waltz step, and she smiled up at him, content that he had agreed to do that much. Then without warning, he swept her into a series of rapid turns that left her dizzy and breathless--and stunned by his display of grace and agility.

One corner of his mouth turned up in a smug little smile as he lead her through steps that would have made Fred Astaire proud, and once the initial shock had worn off, she found herself laughing with pure delight, wishing the moment would never end. But all too soon, the song was over. He brought their dance to an end, leaning close as he bent her into a low dip; her eyelids fluttered closed as he brushed his lips lightly across hers, then returned for a slower, deeper kiss--

The harsh cacophony of a clanging bell startled Isabel out of her slumber, and without thinking, she grabbed the intrusive alarm clock and hurled it with all her might at the opposing wall; it impacted with a satisfying smash, then hit the floor, gears, springs and shards of plastic scattering everywhere. Well, she'd have to buy a new alarm clock, but at least she _felt_ better.

It had been three days since her confrontation with Mike, and neither of them were showing any signs of relenting. When she had come out of her bedroom that night after a prolonged bout of weeping, the first thing she had noticed was that he'd left the key and taken the ring--which set her off all over again.

She'd considered going by to see him and begging for a chance to talk things out, but she was still too angry and disillusioned for that, and obviously he wasn't any more inclined to make the first move than she was.

So they remained apart, and Isabel felt like her heart was slowly crumbling into bits. She had spent longer hours at the newspaper, and when she _was_ home, she was careful to avoid any sight of him, which meant she'd spent a great deal of time curled up on the couch with her cats, lonely and miserable. The only contact she'd had with anyone from next door was the day after the fight when Micky came by to see how she was doing; she'd spilled the whole story to him, and he'd listened sympathetically, but he had no advice to offer. He could only tell her that Mike was in the foulest temper Micky had ever seen him in, and none of them dared broach the subject for fear of getting their heads bitten off. 

Peter had also stopped by to visit and see how she was. He'd hugged her tight as she cried on his shoulder, then he'd fixed her with a solemn look. 

"I think Mike was wrong to break up with you," he said gravely. "He may have thought he was doing the right thing, but he wasn't--not for either of you. It's just causing you both to be unhappy." 

He rose to leave then, turning back once to add, "If you need me for anything..." He let the words trail off, but she could see the rest of the message in his gentle brown eyes, and she nodded hastily and glanced away, not wanting to know the truth--he would be there for her, yes, in any way that she wanted him. But she pretended not to see, not to know; it was safer that way for them both. 

And now just as she thought she might be starting to heal the least little bit, that stupid, stupid dream had proven her completely wrong.

She sighed, threw back the covers and went through the motions of her morning routine, preparing to face another day without Mike in it.

  
  


The phone was already ringing when she walked through the door that evening; she didn't hurry to answer it. There were only a handful of people who might be calling her, and she wasn't in the mood to talk to any of them. But it was still ringing when she'd put down her briefcase, stepped out of her shoes and paused to stroke Rose and Gil, and she felt obligated to answer.

"Izzy, you're finally home!"

Micky's voice immediately cheered her, and she found herself smiling for the first time in days.

"Micky! Hi," she replied, tucking the receiver between her shoulder and her jaw as she reached up to loosen her hair from the confining braid she'd worn it in all day. "What's up?"

"We need you to get over here right now," he stated bluntly. 

Isabel froze, her heart beating faster at the mere thought of stepping foot inside their house again where there were so many memories--and how would _Mike_ react to her coming around again?

"What? But why--?" 

"Peter's trying to cook again," he explained in a tone of weary long-suffering. "We need someone who knows what they're doing to help--right away!" 

"Oh, Micky...I don't know...I don't think that's such a good idea," she said hesitantly. 

"You don't have to worry about Mike," he added hastily. "He's tied up at the moment."

Well, if there wasn't a chance they would run into each other, perhaps she could manage to keep it together long enough to help Micky.

"Okay, sure--I'll be there in a minute."

"Great!" Micky's voice was suffused with relief, and Isabel hung up, sighing quietly with frustrating at having let herself be talked into this.

She changed into a pair of faded jeans and a comfortable black cotton shirt before heading next door; once there, she paused, wondering if she should knock this time, but she decided that no matter what happened with Mike, the others were still her friends, and she wouldn't stand on ceremony with them.

As soon as she opened the door, Peter ran to meet her, a wide smile lighting up his face.

"Hi!" he greeted her enthusiastically. "Thanks for coming--"

"No problem," she assured him. "So what's--"

A sudden, earsplitting banging erupted upstairs, sounding like it was coming from the upstairs bedroom--or more accurately, it sounded like it was going to come through the _floor_ of the upstairs bedroom--and Isabel stared up at the closed door, wide-eyed with alarm.

"What in the world--?" she began, but once again she was cut off, this time by a loud thud followed by a high-pitched yelp of pain that could only have come from Micky.

"Peter, what's going on here?" she demanded, rounding on him with her hands on her hips.

"Well," Peter began wringing his hands, groping for an answer. "Micky's _very_ upset, you see, and he's--he's been throwing things."

" _Throwing_ things?" she repeated, staring at him with a puzzled frown. "He sounded fine on the phone!"

"Uh--well--he just found out that Mrs. Weefers threw away--um--his--um--his favorite shirt!" He paused, then grasped her upper arm firmly and guided her to the stairs. "Just go on up--maybe you can help calm him down." 

Casting one last doubtful look over her shoulder, Isabel bounded up the steps two at a time, driven more by curiosity now than anything else. There was something weird going on here, and she wanted to know what it was.

She knocked lightly on the bedroom door, leaning with one ear tilted towards it, trying to hear what was going on in there, but all she could hear were a muffled voice and some odd wood-on-wood scraping sounds.

"Micky? Are you in there?" she called out.

"Yeah--just a minute!" he yelled back, and the muffled voice grew louder and more strident. 

She stepped away from the door, her face clouded with confusion. Was that Davy she'd heard whispering something that sounded suspiciously like, "Hold still, will you?"

"Micky, I'm coming in now," she declared, wrapping her fingers around the knob, but before she could turn it, it moved under her hand, and Micky flung the door open, grabbed her arm and hauled her unceremoniously inside.

"Micky!" she shrieked as she stumbled over the threshold, shocked by his rough treatment. "What are you doing--?"

She managed to regain her balance, looked up--and saw Mike bound and gagged in a chair positioned between the two twin beds. His furious litany of dire threats was stifled by the bandanna in his mouth, but the message in his eyes was clear: "My room-mates are dead men the moment I get free."

"Are you _crazy_?" Isabel gasped as she ran over to Mike, moving to stand behind him so she could untie the rope and gag.

"Hold it!" Micky exclaimed, and she glanced up, startled by his imperious tone. She'd never heard him talk like that before.

Drawing himself up to his full height and clasping his hands together in his best "George Michael Dolenz, Solicitor" attitude, Micky gazed at both of them with an atypically stern look on his mobile face. Davy and Peter flanked him on either side like trusty lieutenants, both appearing just as solemn as Micky.

"After carefully reviewing all the available evidence, we have come to the conclusion that the only things keeping the two of you apart are your own pride and stubbornness."

Beside him, Peter and Davy each gave a firm nod of agreement.

"Now wait just a minute--!" Isabel protested, and Mike started up another vehement--but unintelligible--tirade.

Micky held up his hand for silence, his expression implacable, and she bit back her words for the moment. Mike's ranting subsided to a mere grumble, and without thinking, she began massaging his neck and shoulders, trying to soothe him a little. She abruptly realized that perhaps it wasn't the wisest or most appropriate thing to do considering the situation between them, and she almost stopped. But then Mike gave a quiet sigh, and she felt the tension in his shoulders ease somewhat, which she took as a sign that her attentions weren't unwelcome.

"Both of you are too pig-headed to admit you were wrong first," Micky continued. "Therefore, it is the decision of this committee that you will remain in this room until you reach a satisfactory compromise regarding the pertinent issues."

"Or until you kiss and make up," Davy added helpfully.

"Micky--no--wait!" Isabel made a dash for the door, but the three young men were too quick for her.

They scooted out the door, slamming it shut, and Isabel heard the unmistakable scrape of a lock being turned.

"Micky!" She pounded on the door with one fist, rattling the doorknob with the other. "Micky--Peter--c'mon--let us out!"

"Uh-uh, no way, baby!" came the reply, and Isabel turned back to face Mike, resigned to her fate.

Mike, on the other hand, was not so sanguine. He began shouting something that she felt safe interpreting as "Untie me!" over and over as loudly as he could with the gag in his mouth. She crossed the room and stood in front of his chair, looking down at him with her arms folded across her chest.

"Look," she said reasonably. "It's obvious they're not going to let us out, so if I take off the gag, don't start yelling, okay?"

He nodded, his brown eyes snapping with rage, then he bent his head so she could reach the knot holding the bandanna in place. She stepped closer, almost but not quite touching his legs, and unfastened the gag, barely able to resist the urge to plunge her hands into the thick, black waves, to sift the silken strands through her fingers as she'd done so many times before. Instead, she simply pulled the gag away and stepped back--and winced as he immediately roared, "Micky, you better open this door right _now_!"

"Not until you guys quit acting like bratty two-year-olds!" was Micky's sing-song response, and Isabel felt an overwhelming urge to throttle him herself.

"Well..." She sat down on the edge of Mike's bed and smiled wryly. "I guess we talk."

"You wanna untie me first?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"No."

"No?" he yelped. "Whaddaya _mean_ 'no'?"

"If I untie you right now," she explained calmly, "the first thing you'd do is try to break down the door, and then you'd try to kill Micky, so we wouldn't settle anything."

Her innate pragmatism was beginning to assert itself, and as unorthodox as Micky's scheme was, she was beginning to like it. For the first time in three days, she felt a bloom of hope.

Mike glared at her, huffing in frustration, but he didn't deny it--he couldn't, and they both knew it.

"Well?" she prompted after a minute or two had passed with nothing coming from either one of them.

"Well what?" he asked sullenly.

"Don't you have anything to say to me?" She dug her fingers into his bedspread, bunching it up and releasing it repeatedly in a vain attempt to dispel some of her own nervousness.

"Yeah. When I get through tannin Micky's hide for this, you're next."

"Oh, c'mon, Mike!" she cried, exasperated by his stubborn refusal to cooperate. "This is a perfect opportunity for us. Please don't waste it."

"What do you want me to do--beg?" he snapped, regarding her coldly.

"No." She shook her head. "I want you to be honest with me."

He didn't respond to that, but he didn't have to; she saw the willfulness in his eyes, in the thin angry line of his mouth.

"Mike, please don't shut me out like this," she implored him. "I want to talk about this. I don't get my kicks from putting you down--you should know that--"

"You want the truth?" he asked abruptly.

He couldn't move, but he still managed to skewer her with a single, penetrating look, and she simply nodded. She fell deeper under his spell, feeling as if he were somehow searching her very soul for the answers they both sought.

"Fine." He lowered his head, staring at a spot on the floor between his feet instead of looking at her; his voice was quiet but intense with an underlying current of anger, demanding her full attention. "The truth is that when I left you the other day, I felt like you'd reached into my chest and grabbed my heart to keep with you."

Isabel gasped, her hands flying to her mouth; she hadn't known what to expect from him, but this--!

"The longer we're together, the more it's like I'm lookin in a mirror when I look at you," he continued in the same restrained tone. "But you never really let on how you felt. I knew you liked me, but I didn't wanna assume how much, and I didn't wanna tell you how _I_ felt because I didn't wanna scare you off."

"How _do_ you feel?" she asked softly, barely able to get the words out through her tight throat. She scarcely dared to hope that she might hear the words that she had longed to say herself, and she clasped her hands together, twisting them fretfully as she waited breathlessly for him to continue.

"You're the first girl I've ever met that I don't want to live without," he said simply, his voice almost lifeless as if that confession had sapped him of all strength and feeling. "There. Are you happy now?" The words were without bitterness or rancor, but they wounded her nonetheless.

"No," she replied, her voice wavering. 

He glanced up at her sharply, an unspoken question written all over his face, but she shook her head, not ready to answer. Tears sprang into her eyes as she jumped up and moved to kneel behind his chair, her nerveless, trembling fingers fumbling with the rope that bound him.

She was half-afraid that he might still try to break down the door once he was free, but he didn't; he remained in the chair, not moving as she rose to her feet and circled around to stand in front of him again.

"No, I'm _not_ happy," she whispered, slipping her arms around his neck and settling herself in his lap. "Not without you."

Staring at her with a blend of amazement and hope, he wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her close; he reached up with the other hand and tangled it in her hair as she leaned forward and trailed a row of light kisses along his jawline. She pulled away as she reached his lips--just enough so that she could look him straight in the eye.

"I'm in love with you, too," she said--and she found herself crushed against him, pulled into a kiss filled with more hunger and longing than she had ever felt from him before. Had this been there all the while? she wondered. Had he been holding back--hiding this from her?

But she didn't ponder the question long; for once, she didn't shrink away or retreat behind safe walls. Now that she knew exactly how he felt--and how strongly--she dropped all her defenses, allowing her rising passion to meet his own.

On the other side of the room, the came the faint grating sound of metal on metal, then the door creaked open, and Micky poked his head into the room, a quizzical look on his face that rapidly turned into delight.

"It worked it worked it worked!" he shouted as he flung the door open so Peter and Davy could witness the reunion for themselves.

"No wonder it got so quiet in 'ere," Davy remarked.

Peter watched silently, his expression almost--but not quite--wistful. 

"Hey, you guys--let's go celebrate!" Micky exclaimed. "C'mon--we'll go out to eat!"

He paused, waiting for a response from either Mike or Isabel, but there was none. Neither of them even appeared to have heard him.

"Uh, Mike--?" he asked hesitantly. "Isabel--? Izzy--?"

Again, no response, and Micky and Peter began shuffling their feet awkwardly while Davy stared in rapt fascination.

After another long minute had passed with neither of them coming up for air, Davy let out a low whistle.

"That's what I call breath control," he said, a note of awe and new-found respect in his voice. "I'm impressed."

"Coming from you, that's high praise indeed," Micky noted dryly. "C'mon, let's leave them alone. We'll see if they wanna go out later."

He herded the other two out of the room, shutting the door quietly and carefully behind them.

Mike broke away long enough to peer around Isabel and frown at the door.

"Did you hear somethin'?" he asked, sounding puzzled as if he weren't quite sure if it had been his imagination or not.

"Not a thing," Isabel murmured against his lips.

"Me neither."


End file.
